A Tisket, A Tasket, I'm Gonna Blow A Gasket
by RogueFanKC
Summary: It's official: Sherlock Holmes and Bucky Barnes are about to kill each other. Although to be fair, Bucky shouldn't have desecrated Sherlock's chair, and when is Sherlock not asking for it? Unfortunately, before the actual homicide, the two then get a very disturbing call. From a certain consulting criminal who is supposed to be dead...


If George Martin didn't trademark the phrase, it would have been brilliant to say that winter was coming.

Directly in the living room of 221B Baker Street.

For Sherlock saw red, his knuckles turning white as they clenched into fists.

Ever since Steven Rogers and the Winter Soldier came into their lives, Sherlock's days were filled with nothing but tension, aggravation, and many, many injuries due to that "Hydra Bicycle".

All right, breaking Sherlock's nose at John and Steven's first lunch date was bad.

Introducing the other Avengers (who were also avid followers of John's blog) to Watson and having the good doctor subjugated to his adoring fan-base was insulting.

Callously rinsing all his mold and bacteria samples from the past two months in his petri dishes through the dishwasher?

Both Steven and John had to physically restrain Sherlock from using his microscope to bash an unrepentant Bucky's skull in.

But _this_ …

 _This_ one spiteful exploit was just the small step that crossed the damned Rubicon.

That was absolutely the last straw.

Sherlock was done.

 _ **Utterly, one-hundred percent done.**_

" _ **Move**_ ," growled Sherlock dangerously.

"Tough. I'll leave when I'm good and ready," Bucky shot back, eating a plum and trying his best to lounge even further in Sherlock's armchair, smugly rubbing his rear against the upholstery with aggravating creaking noises.

Sometimes, Sherlock regretted giving Steven and John the idea to renovate and move into the 221C basement flat down below just to see the look of horrified shock on Bucky's face when Steven told him the news…

On the other hand, with Steven and John out to run an errand for renovation supplies, it would give Sherlock a _**perfect**_ opportunity to commit homicide and hide the body with no one the wiser (he removed all of Mycroft's cameras)…

Sherlock's jaw throbbed as his teeth began to painfully grind against each other down to the molars.

"Let me simplify my words down to a level even a moron such as yourself is capable of comprehending: I want to sit in MY chair. You are in **MY** seat. **Get out of MY CHAIR so I can sit down.** _ **NOW.**_ "

"There's a perfectly good seat over there for you to sit your ass down," Bucky muttered between bites as he motioned to the other chair in front of him.

Sherlock's face became even more disparaging as he retorted, "That's _John's_ chair, you venal pillock."

"Aw, miss your cripple already?" Bucky jeered.

 _John, I cannot fathom how this…this…numbskull could ever have a_ _ **single flea**_ _care about his scuzzy and disgusting well-being, much less the heroic Captain America and the majority of the Avengers! As if I required further proof of their short-sighted inanity and misguided devotion! Bucky Barnes is beyond a doubt the foulest and crudest human being in the history of psychopathic scalawags! He is insensitive! He is insolent! He crudely invades our flat without a single regard of our privacy! He punches me at every turn for no reason whatsoever! He uncouthly utters and succumbs to any crass impulse from his diseased and limited brain with absolutely no compunctions and honor to others' considerations and respect! Do you have any idea what it is like to be constantly frustrated, assaulted, and insulted at every waking moment by someone with the emotional capacity of a child on a daily…_ _ **for heaven's sake, John, why are you smiling at me like that?!**_

Sherlock aborted the memory from his Mind Palace as he focused on the crisis at hand.

Sherlock's checks were now vermillion with a lethal touch of purple as he rumbled severely.

"Final warning, you slagging munter: if you do not relinquish my chair from your ravaged buttocks, **I will utterly and thoroughly use force to destroy you.** "

 _Sherlock's a good man; he wouldn't be solving cases just because he's bored._

 _I normally don't like bullies, but I don't think Sherlock is like the typical scootches we had in Brooklyn. He's got a heart._

 _Buck, just remember that every time you punch Sherlock, it hurts John too. And I don't think he really recovered fully Sherlock's suicide from Saint Bart's._

 _Maybe you'd get along with Sherlock if you didn't aggravate him so much, Buck. You two are more alike than you think. You're both stubborn, headstrong, determined, and never seem to care what others think of – AUGH!_ _ **AUGH!**_ _Mercy, mercy, mercy! I hate noogies! I have a sensitive scalp, Buck!_ _ **Quit it!**_

Bucky decided to forgo Steven's past pleas for once; the Consulting Detective brought it upon himself, really.

Without uttering a single word, Bucky's smirk went wide and ribald as he then took the remains of the plum core in his metal fingers and crushed it easily into pulp with a deft squeeze. Sticky juice and bits of fruit splattered on the green leather upholstery of the armrest and down the sleeve and into the sitting cushion. Bucky's eyes never left the twitching Sherlock's face as he then self-righteously smashed the mess from his hands on the chair's support, callously wiping the paste clean off his hands and onto Sherlock's chair. And just to add salt to the wound, Bucky then rudely and unceremoniously passed gas, loudly farting on the cushion.

Sherlock looked like he was about to have a stroke.

Bucky just leaned back, steepled his fingers together, and waited for the incoming attack; then he'd have the perfect excuse to break Sherlock's arms.

Bucky smiled, daring.

Sherlock then narrowed his eyes, and he aimed low and fired.

"Longing. Rusted. Seventeen," Sherlock enunciated, slowly and loudly, his deep voice punctuating each vowel.

Bucky's face fell as his eyes went wide, his mouth slightly open in a silent scream.

"Daybreak. Furnace."

Bucky's complexion went white as he stiffened and gripped the armrests of the chair, hissing with distress, "No…"

"Nine. Benign."

"Shut up…" Bucky gasped, his PTSD already making his breathing shallow, his heart beating madly against his ribcage like a jackhammer. Bucky was starting to feel dizzy, vertigo threatening to make him vomit the plum he just previously ingested.

"Homecoming."

"Stop…" rasped Bucky, now delirious with fear and rising bile.

"One."

"STOP!"

"Freight - "

" _ **SHUT UP!**_ " howled Bucky at the top of his lungs as he lunged towards Sherlock, but he was so disoriented and wildly overwhelmed that his swing at his antagonist missed Sherlock by a wide berth, allowing Sherlock to effortlessly dodge the punch and leaving Bucky clinging to the fireplace mantle for support.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock immediately dashed past Bucky and smoothly immersed himself into his armchair, sighing with relief and declaring out loud, "And with that, all is well. I didn't complete the trigger, so according to the files I stole from Mycroft, you should have no adverse side effects whatsoever in your limited brain."

Smiling widely, Sherlock picked up the newspaper on the corner stand and began to read, not noticing (or caring) at the uncontrollable tremors of crippling strain, apprehension, and murderous rage running throughout Bucky's body. Bucky's legs were so feeble that he could barely support himself against the fireplace to soothe the shivering. The ex-assassin was so sick that he could have easily vomited right then and there, his head slowly swimming back to a steady rhythm due to the unnaturally high cortisol levels. It took several minutes before the hyperventilating Winter Solder could calm down, repeating the phrases "Steve", "Sarah", "Brooklyn", "Howling Commandos" over and over in his mind until he could actually snap out of his fugue state. With teeth clenched and spittle building up on his tongue, a traumatized and enraged Bucky asked hoarsely with incredulity, wide bloodshot eyes nearly popping out of his skull.

"You…you _deliberately_ …tried…tried to **trigger** me?! _**Just to get your chair back?!**_ "

Oblivious to how deep he was in, Sherlock just blithely derided, "Astounding, you required less than an hour to actually arrive to the logical conclusion. Well done. It appears your elementary-school lessons with Captain America are showing a dramatic improvement. Now, be less of a nuisance and kindly slither back to 221C. You're in my light and I would like to finish this article – _**OOF!**_ "

Sherlock's taunt ended with a painful grunt as Bucky, now completely incensed, tackled the detective with a terrific shoulder-butt into Sherlock's chest, and surprised at the sudden burst of speed, Sherlock had no choice but to topple gracelessly out of the chair and onto the floor with Bucky trying to pound him.

It immediately became ugly, both the detective and the assassin trading punches and blows like an obnoxious playground brawl at primary school, rolling around and wrestling on the floor, scattering objects everywhere.

"Bastard!"

"Get off me, you blithering dunce!"

"Asshole!"

"My God, you fight as badly as you reek!"

"Shithead!"

"Such language! I do wonder what your dear old _Daddy Rogers_ would think when he finds out you have quite the potty-mouth!"

"Fucking prick!"

"Oh for God's sake! If this makes you more agreeable – _Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak_ – _gaaakkk!_ "

" **I'll kill you!** " Bucky swore, fingers tightening around Sherlock's neck as he began to throttle Sherlock, "I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll – _YYYAAGGHH!_ You bit me! _**You actually bit me, you cocksucker!**_ "

"And now I completely regret subjugating myself to whatever diseases and sexually-transmitted bacteria flowing through your flabby body…" grimaced Sherlock as he gagged and tried to spit out the blood on his tongue.

Bucky was now completely apoplectic as he jumped on top of Sherlock, ready to crush him through the floor and roaring wordlessly and bellowing piercingly enough to cause Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Hudson (who were enjoying coffee and scones in Speedy's Café next door) to snap out of their conversation.

Mrs. Turner murmured worriedly as numerous pedestrians stopped and eavesdropped at the tumultuous commotion from the flat upstairs, "Should we call the Met?"

"Actually, this is one of Sherlock and James' _healthier_ arguments. I daresay the group therapy sessions are actually working," Mrs. Hudson replied with a straight face as she sipped her coffee.

Mrs. Turner didn't look like she agreed, especially when a microscope went crashing through one of the windows and out onto the street below, nearly hitting a taxi in its trajectory.

Inside the flat, it was complete chaos. The coffee table was smashed into splintered halves, every furniture in the living room and kitchen was overturned with test tubes, glassware, dishes and papers shattered or spread about. All the bookshelves were toppled over and strewn helter-skelter. The kitchen sink was missing its spout and now merrily squirting a miniature geyser. The fireplace mantle was pathetically swinging loose off the walls by a lone nail, several kitchen cabinets had their doors forcibly torn open or caved inwards, the steel refrigerator was lying open on its side, spoiled food melting on the floor, and the mirror above the hearth was blatantly signaling seven years worth of bad-luck. And it was probably best to not mention the new holes in the walls (surprisingly, the fire poker was stuck and embedded within the plaster).

Sherlock's deposit to Mrs. Hudson was _**definitely not**_ going to cover this.

Unremitting, Sherlock Holmes and Bucky Barnes kept brawling it out, no-holds barred, with Sherlock deducing that the throbbing in his jaw signified that he lost a couple of teeth while Bucky hoping that his left eye was merely swollen shut and not because Sherlock gouged it out with his fingernails.

It was the rage and fury that made Bucky forget all his martial and fighting skills, the years of army hand-to-hand and Hydra conditioning, that made him rowdily swing over and over at Sherlock's torso, arms, shoulder and face. The red haze over his eyes darkened each time Sherlock returned a blow, and Sherlock's attempt to knee his nether-regions was off enough to make him gasp in relief, yet close enough to make him sweat.

Sherlock saw stars and flashes of light dance across his eyes and Bucky yanked on his hair and shoved his face and hard against the floor, hammering his stomach all the meanwhile. Spitting out blood from his mouth, the Consulting Detective wiggled and fought for leverage as he used every dirty technique he could think of to gain the upper hand. He heard something rip, and Sherlock beseeched that it was cloth and not his hair coming out of his scalp.

If it went on any longer, it was quite likely that only one of them was going to make it out of this alive.

And then by the grace of God…

Sherlock's phone then began to chime audibly.

At first, Bucky and Sherlock were both content to just ignore it, but after thirty seconds, with Sherlock using both of his palms to painfully push Bucky's chin and head sideways in an effort to stop the Winter Solder from crushing his windpipe with his metal hand, it sort of took them out of the bloodlust.

After all, no one really wants to kill someone with Chic's "Le Freak" gauchely playing the background.

"Turn off your damn phone…" panted Bucky, a bit more exhausted than he would care to admit.

"It's _**your**_ phone, you promiscuous twat…" Sherlock wheezed, starting to feel the bruises that were peppering his chest and face.

Bucky had just cocked back his fist and was about to let loose a haymaker before it then hit him, eyes widening.

"It's…both of our phones. But I never programmed a ringtone," the ex-Hydra soldier stated slowly, feeling sick.

The British detective blinked before he realized that Bucky was telling the truth.

Sherlock's brain then kicked in at the choice of a seventies song used on their phones.

And the fact that Steven and John still haven't returned from their trip to the hardware store.

That was over three hours ago.

In unison, despite their injuries, Bucky and Sherlock dashed off the floor to check their mobiles lying on the floor, argument and brawl immediately cast aside and forgotten.

Bucky did his best to not fracture the phone in his metal grip while Sherlock forced himself to remain calm as they both played the video file that was sent to them.

With annoying xylophone chimes and flowery harps, the Flash cartoon exhibited a cartoony and miniature form of a chibi-fied Jim Moriarty in a black suit and tie, skipping across a field of green carnations (damn him) and carrying a wicker basket. On the caricature's face was an exuberant and smug smile and leering eyes before it stopped and pointed to its bag.

Moriarty's voice then rang childishly and tauntingly through their phones' speakers.

" _A-tisket, a-tasket, two Captains in a basket…_ "

Their screens went blank before a photo of John Watson and Steven Rogers appeared.

Sherlock and Bucky both felt their stomachs drop as they audibly took in a breath simultaneously in distress.

Bound and gagged, John Watson and Steven Rogers were glaring angrily at the camera as their photo was being taken. With their hands tied behind their backs and forced on their knees, they were unable to try anything, considering that both were wearing familiar vests with packets of Semtex explosives sewn into them. And Steven had additional safeguards as Bucky spotted the power-damper collar around Steven's neck, like a dog, inhibiting Steve and weakening him enough to be kidnapped without much hassle.

" _You're going to need a casket…_ "

Another picture then popped up on screen.

The second picture was far more serious.

Both Steven and John had obviously just gone through a horrific beating before this next photo was taken. Dazed and barely conscious, John and Steven were displaying bloody bruises and injuries across their faces. Despite the likely concussions, both John and Steven were forced to raise their heads up in order to look at the camera by the mercenary Crossbones, yanking them both cruelly by the hair. John was wincing in pain, one eyes swollen shut due to the blooming red all around his face and his nose was bleeding and dripping on his woolen jumper. Steve was actually much, much worse (Crossbones clearly took pleasure in satisfying his grudge). One side of Steven's face was smeared with blood, and Steve was biting down on the rag stuffed in his mouth in agony with gritted teeth, trying cope with the discomfort of his recent thrashing. And to Bucky's dread, Steven's right arm was at an odd and horrific angle, with a bit of bone jabbing out the skin and flesh.

" _Sherlock and Bucky are going to blow a gasket…_ "

Another video clip then played with the impeccably-dressed Jim Moriarty, very much alive and healthy (for a criminal mastermind who put a gun to his mouth), cheerfully waving to the camera like a gleeful child. With snake-like eyes and an elatedly manic expression, the psychopath sang, "To the Manchurian Failure and the Consulting Crapsack, _I found them, I found them, I green-and-yellow found them!_ Normally, I'd wish you luck at finding the Golden Thread, but in this case, you'd never be able to track us down and find your _adorable_ 'Steeb' and 'Jawn' in time. Aw, but there, there. Don't cry! One of Winter Soldier's past associates is willing to fork over a **very** lucrative amount to have these two in their possessions, but the downside is they probably won't be adorable anymore. Ah well, nothing lasts forever, etcetera etcetera…"

Bucky's eye twitched.

Sherlock was beside himself with disgust and scorn; he didn't think it was possible, but Moriarty actually bragging his plans to his enemies _**before**_ he carried them out was the most asinine and pompous…

It then hit him, a tidal wave of horror and dread.

"He _**already**_ delivered them to Hydra…" Sherlock murmured, going pale.

" _No shit_ , Sherlock," Bucky snapped.

On the video, Moriarty then leaned closer and sneered.

" _ **I've**_ learned my lesson, unlike you two. After seeing the greatness and might of the Avengers and their allies and enemies, I cannot believe I have wasted my time obsessing over a junkie and an obsolete model. And for the record: 'Johnlock' and 'Stucky' are the _**stupidest**_ shipping names in the history of brainless fangirls. Go cry and weep over the Captains' cane and shield at the weasel's next Empty Hearse meeting where you can moan over your non-existent love lives with the other meaningless insects."

The screens on their phones went black, but not before displaying a rather infuriating taunt for additional injury with a small emoji of Moriarty with a toothy smile and making a zipping motion across its mouth with a tiny hand.

"#Moriarty'd!"

Bucky Barnes and Sherlock Holmes' faces were now red, and Bucky actually crushed the phone in his fingers while Sherlock's bloodshot eyes suddenly had an intense sensation of budding pressure from his skull, shaking in fury.

One could _almost_ hear the Ironside Sirens playing forebodingly in the background…

 **Author's Note: Dear Moriarty, you decided to unnecessarily piss off Bucky Barnes and Sherlock Holmes by kidnapping and torturing Steven Rogers and John Watson and mock them about it.**

 **The two _very_ people Sherlock and Bucky would move Heaven and Earth for with no regard to their own self-preservation and with everything they have and nothing to lose.**

 **...any requests for me to submit an application for the "Darwin Awards" before the next installment next week?**


End file.
